Mar 6, 2007

Must ... not ... think ... about ... the ... ink

Sometimes I wake up hyperventilating. When it all comes back to me.

I went in to work on a Saturday. The boys were with me.

Emmett was about three years old at the time. I looked up, and he had a marker in his hand.

From the corner of my eye, I saw—Ohmygodno, no, no—a marker mark on the wall.

I shot to my feet and raced to the mark. It ran toward the corner. And around. And all the way down the hall.

In a movie, the camera shot would shift to the outside of the building and zoom away to the sound of a yell: Nooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo!

All I can say is: God bless the facilities workers who scrubbed the marks off the wall. You could almost not see it afterward.

Wait, I can say one more thing: Emmett, Ya Goof!


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